


Psychopomp

by bearsquares



Series: Flesh on Metal [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Casualties of War, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Short One Shot, Spoilers, cryleth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27963389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearsquares/pseuds/bearsquares
Summary: Tailtean Plains, 1186. After fighting on opposite ends of the battlefield, Jeritza takes it upon himself to pull Byleth from the wreckage.When he lifted her out of the muck and filth, he allowed himself a smile. A little one.
Relationships: Jeritza von Hrym/My Unit | Byleth, Manuela Casagranda & Jeritza von Hrym
Series: Flesh on Metal [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945747
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Psychopomp

Misfortune always came in threes. 

First, the rain; cold and unrelenting, falling in wavelike sheets, churning the wet earth into mud. Then came the suspicious Kingdom knights—sentinels in the downpour, frozen among the clashing of blades and volleys of arrows. And then, when the last of the berserker knights fell, there came the archbishop. He had lost sight of Byleth partway through the battle and would have doubled back if not for the sudden appearance of that unhinged beast woman and a score of her followers. 

The rearguard had been expecting a second army, though they were scarcely prepared to engage it. Even amidst swarms of enemies and hostile steel, he felt no excitement; jealousy seized his guts at the thought of anyone taking Byleth’s life from him. Word traveled quickly of Kingdom reinforcements—several waves of them—all concentrated in the north fields to protect their liege. Jeritza nor the Death Knight ever panicked in battle, but—no, he couldn’t. To follow his impulses now and abandon his post would put too many lives at risk—not that it concerned him terribly, but he had not come this far to risk Byleth leaving him behind in utter disgust. Leave him forever with a flung dagger, and a hissed "do it yourself".

But she was not so cruel to say such a thing. Not even to him. 

Maybe her kindness had rubbed off on him a little. Despite his past—despite _their_ past—she had shown him the same care and affection she did with her students, endeavoring to speak with him and know him better and, worst of all, give him praise when he did something that impressed her. It was kind of silly, but he couldn't bring himself to reject her attentions. Even though she treated everyone that way.

Breaking orders meant endangering those around him, and if any died by his negligence, she would never forgive him. So he stayed, observing the others from afar while he dealt with a Kingdom general; a red-headed man of the academy whom he recalled befouling women with lascivious words and gestures—Byleth included.

The Death Knight took care of him.

His allies proved more than capable—unsurprising, given who had advised them—and together managed to injure the archbishop badly enough to force the Knights of Seiros to withdraw. With the east field cleared, it seemed the battle had ended. 

That was his chance to withdraw as well. To make sure his rival was still his.

Conditions had been far more brutal in the north and west. Pure, unceasing carnage had turned the flooded soil crimson, so thick with mud-logged corpses no one could tell Kingdom from Empire from Church.

Jeritza did not envy those tasked with retrieving them. The shell of grey clouds was only just beginning to crack, but the cold front from the storm had moved on. Steam rose from the wet earth wherever sunlight touched. The scores of dead would decay quicker in the heat, and with no winds to carry the stench away, the air would soon become too sweet and heavy to breathe. (Several men were on their hands and knees already, heaving themselves dry.)

The river bisecting the plains had risen high enough to reach the soles of his feet, creeping beneath the plates of his sabatons. It appeared pink when the sun hit it. He found it mesmerizing—how it glittered as other mounts and soldiers splashed through it. They carried the injured past him, to the south encampment. He looked down at the squirming men and women with morbid interest, wondering how many would die before they reached it. 

He almost didn't notice the Emperor at first. She regarded him sternly as usual, though she was also a bit dazed and clutching her side—a wound by the fallen king's relic, for certain. They didn't speak; she knew where he was going, what he was thinking. She confirmed his gut feeling had been correct. The Emperor dismissed him with a tight nod. Her casual distaste for him had intensified over the past few moons—no doubt because of his snaps of aggression toward her favorite teacher—yet she trusted him in this task. He supposed he cared for the Professor in his own way, though it was somewhat jarring to name his feelings.

As the ground grew softer and bloodier, he was forced to abandon his mount and continue his search on foot. He felt like a vulture combing the body-strewn fields, shooing his brethren away from the freshest meat, just to be sure. But he was no carrion bird; truly he was the hunter which fed them, too afflicted by emotion to feed himself. 

He found her among a tangle of corpses, where the death smell was strongest. It was the glint of her eyes, and that she was the only body still moving, which caught his attention. Had he been looking elsewhere in that moment, he would have missed her.

He was shocked to find her in this state. Covered in sludge and gore, her ruined leg sagging while she tried to pull herself up out of the sticking mud. In a way, he felt violated seeing his rival disgraced before him, yet vindicated in his selfish desire to never let her out of his sight again. To follow her. Perhaps if he had followed her the night before, he could have died to prevent her suffering now—not the ending he’d hoped for, but he could do much worse for himself.

Her face hit the mud with a splat, shocking him out of his stupor.

A steel lance lay a few paces away from her; abandoned hours ago, he suspected. The wood was spongy, heavy with rainwater, but solid enough for a splint. He gripped the end of the lance and brought his boot down on the shaft, splitting it at the middle. He bound it to her leg with strips of the Death Knight's cape. 

When he lifted her out of the muck and filth, he allowed himself a smile. A little one.

-

The sky cleared as he ferried her across the river, now a deeper pink. Cloud shadows rippled over the plains, a high wind bearing them up from the south. For a time, he pretended the circumstances were different. He thought he might like to feel the warmth of the sun, and of her pressed against his back, with her arms linked around his waist. The daydream made him feel strange. But not displeased.

-

The infirmary tent reeked like the battlefield, humid with sweat and blood, and faint tones of rot from the early casualties.

A hurried young mage took a single look at him and stiffened—he took no offense—but then noticed the body draped over his saddle. A blade of sunlight passed overhead and the boy's eyes widened. Jeritza glanced between them, noting the young man’s reverent gaze and Byleth's sharp sweep of hair glittering through its mask of filth.

"Quit staring," Jeritza said. When the mage didn't react, he barked, "go!"

A few clumsy steps backward and he was hurrying deeper into the crowd of healers and bodies, voice cracking as he cried, "Professor Manuela!"

Meanwhile, Jeritza's injured rival remained still, the only sign of life her weak breaths fogging against his mount's black armor.

The mage returned. "C-come! Bring her this way!"

The last time he’d spoken to Manuela Casagranda was to apologize for stabbing her. He meant every word of it—especially as a fan of her work, which he was now too mortified to mention, ever—but that was no excuse for what he did. There was no place for his residual awkwardness in this tent, however. He wasn't even sure she even recognized him in her current state; she looked haggard, worse than when he had left her bleeding out in his old quarters.

When he lowered Byleth's limp body onto the blood-soaked cot, she covered her mouth and uttered a hoarse, "oh, Professor…"

"It's in pieces. I couldn't count how many," he mumbled.

Manuela didn't reply, already cutting into the splint.

"Is there anything I can do?"

She stared at him for a moment, gobsmacked, but after a blink or two, she released a sigh she must have been holding in for hours. "We could use some help moving…people."

_Bodies._

"Of course."

  
  
  


‡

  
  
  


Byleth woke to the scrape of a chair against stone, and again to the light thump of a closing door. 

As she struggled to lift her leaden eyelids, a conversation between a husky pair of voices began outside. Something about waiting and worrying and _alright, fine, go ahead._ Manuela had the kind of voice that remained clear and rich despite her fatigue.

Now Byleth remembered her weary murmurings and the intense heat of white magic radiating from her left leg. She’d always had bad luck with that leg.

The door cracked open, letting Manuela’s voice inside. "Don't take too long, okay?" She then added in a mutter, "she's not quite well enough for _that_."

Jeritza entered the room, his expression sour and still aimed at the door as it shut behind him.

She found it sort of boyish. Cute. Oh, he’d kill her for saying that, she thought with a touch of mischief.

He set a candlestick atop a supply table by the door. When he looked over at her, the light clung to the profile of his face. They stared at each other for a dull moment. Last time, she was half-conscious (probably going into shock) trying to limp to her feet to save face. Now they both knew damn well who had watched her collapse like a straw bridge beneath an ox cart, and who had borne her dead weight for miles across the Tailtean Plains.

“Hello.”

He nodded in greeting. It had been a while since he did that; before their impassioned rivalry and the uneasy allyship that followed, back when they barely knew each other. Back when there was a wall ten miles thick between them. Lately, she noticed shades of that shy person returning to him—now most of all.

“How long has it been?”

“Three days.”

“Where are we?”

“Due south of Fhirdiad.”

“Ah.”

Byleth squirmed on the infirmary bed a little, suddenly unable to speak as the full memory of what put her there rushed in. Now she remembered the demonic beast who had once been Dedue, and the downward swing of his paw, the gust of air throwing her backward as he pounded Shamir into the mud right in front of her. She had ended up there as a result of Byleth’s undoing the dual execution of Hubert and Lysithea by several falcon knights. Yes, she used every last divine pulse in her body to get them all ahead. She took the beast down, but left her students and allies to fate.

Her voice trembled. “Did I lose any of them?”

“Not one.”

Byleth shut her eyes, holding in a flood of tears. She swallowed, breathed out. She wouldn’t know whether to cry out of joy or despair. If he had said yes, she wouldn’t have cried at all. Not in front of him.

“Professor?”

Jertiza was crouched next to the low-set bed, his face almost level with hers he was so tall.

“It always feels weird when you call me that.”

He half-smiled. “What should I call you?”

“I’m not sure.” She turned to face him, wincing when she dragged her leg a little.

"No—" He held her still by her shoulder and, not without hesitation, moved to sit on the bed. He looked down as he did it, careful to avoid her leg. When he looked up again, there was a faint blush on his cheeks. "Professor Manuela will kick me out if you get hurt again."

Byleth pitched forward, pushing through his mindblown expression, and slung her arms around him. She didn't go about it right, as his shoulders were too broad and high up for her to do anything but grab at. But impulse was uncontrollable by definition.

It seemed they both had stopped breathing for a moment. Byleth didn't want to break first—if she did, if she moved a single strand of muscle, he might remember himself and push her away.

But he didn’t. His warm hands fit the curves of her waist, rested there as he bent over her, letting her arms slide around his neck. His hair splayed across her arm, pleasantly cool on her skin. She kept her forehead to his collar, hiding her bright red face as he pulled her closer. Their touches had always been cold and hard—blades and claws and solid bodies, never deliberate, not like now. He wanted her embrace, despite the poor execution.

"Thank you."

He grumbled in a way that reminded her of Jeralt—when he used to give her awkward hugs and she'd hear his half-hearted complaints through his chest. She felt a little like crying.

She did.

He gripped her a little tighter in response, brushing his thumbs against her ribs. The difference in their size and physical strength was almost comical. He could crush her like this, easily. And maybe one day he would, maybe with the tenderness he showed her now. 

Byleth smiled through her tears and thought that wouldn’t be a bad way to go. Not bad at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Figured I ought to take a short break from writing smut. 
> 
> Anyway, I’m gonna get back to that now. Thank you for reading! ʕ ≖ᴥ≖ʔゞ


End file.
